


In All But Name

by sareli



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2225532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sareli/pseuds/sareli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He remains stubbornly a Daaé in all but name," Raoul is fond of saying, but Christine is not so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In All But Name

**Author's Note:**

> A result of wondering just how Christine knew her husband was Not The Father. For Sarah :D

For a long time, there was simply no reason for anyone, not even Christine, to suspect that Gustave's father was anyone other than Raoul.

At first, he was nothing more than a sweet, pleasant baby who very much resembled his mother, born nine months to the day since Christine and Raoul's wedding night.

Everything was exactly as it should have been.

* * *

"He does so look like you," Geneviève remarks one afternoon. Raoul's eldest sister has three children, and one of an age with Christine's Gustave.  They have gotten to know very much of each other since the births of their respective sons.

"I have always thought so," Christine admits, turning her attention more fully to Gustave. "I did hope he would have his father's eyes."

In truth, Christine has puzzled over Gustave's eyes far more than just hoping they would imitate Raoul's. Just a handful of weeks after he was born, they changed from newborn blue to a strange, honey-golden sort of color which neither Raoul nor Christine can account for.

Strangely enough, Christine feels like she's seen those same eyes before, though exactly where, she cannot recall.

* * *

As her baby son grows, she searches his face for any traces of Raoul to emerge. None appear.

"He remains stubbornly a Daaé in all but name," Raoul is fond of saying, but Christine is not so sure.

She observes plenty of herself in Gustave's features (his hair, his nose, his fair complexion), but there is another part of him which belongs to neither herself nor Raoul, and this becomes ever more apparent as the days go by.

It's in the shape of his brow and the line of his jaw. It's in the way he sits so still when she sings, and the timbre of his little voice, which is just now beginning to form real words, like _Maman_ and _non_ and _c'est à moi_. Most of all, it's in the sharpness of his unplaceable eyes, and the way they positively burn in some of his wilder moments.

* * *

Gustave is only three, and already he is enamored with the piano in Raoul's library. He asks to go see it constantly, and whenever _Maman_ plays it to accompany her lonely voice, it will not be long until he appears, waiting with decreasing patience for a chance to try his hand.

When he is obliged, as he usually is, he doesn't slam his little hands into the keys at random as one would expect a child of his age to do. Instead, he sits and listens intently, trying each and every key one by one, moving back and forth between them; slowly but surely figuring out how the sounds interact.

Raoul is delighted at the prospect of having produced a genius as his heir. He takes it as a sign of good luck and likely hopes to put it to use in one of his games.

Christine is equally enchanted by her son, there is no doubt of that, but the more Gustave learns of the ways of music, the more she starts to wonder at what age the Phantom of the Opera himself began his illustrious career.

* * *

Sometime after that, Christine has her first encounter with Raoul stumbling home, drunk and muttering about the odds being stacked.

He sleeps well that night and wakes with a terrible headache.

* * *

Just after Gustave's fifth birthday, Christine wakes to the sound of the piano, and goes to find her son at the bench playing a pretty little melody with both of his hands.

"That's very well, Gustave," she smiles, sitting down beside him, stroking his hair. "Where did you learn that one?"

"I didn’t learn it, I just heard it.”

She smiles at the brilliance of her son, already playing by ear. "It's lovely."

"Do you hear it too, _Maman_?" he asks, turning to her.

"Hear what, _mon petit_?"

"The music," he says. "Does it tell you where to go?"

Christine freezes. Could this be? Had Gustave not been playing by ear after all? Might she have a little composer in her midst?

"From time to time," she answers mildly before she has time to get lost in ghosts and echoes.

Her son turns back to the piano, and all at once, she knows where she has seen those eyes before.

* * *

It seems that though Erik was never really a ghost, he has found a way to haunt her once again, even so.

* * *

“Gustave? What are you doing here, wandering about in the dark? Are you not afraid?”

“What is there to fear?” he asks.

“Why, ghosts, of course,” she says playfully. “Goblins, ghouls, and night-terrors alike! Do you not worry that you are not alone?”

“Oh, I know I’m not,” her seven-year-old tells her matter-of-factly. “That’s why I come here, for all the lovely things you can’t find in the light.”

Christine feels a chill along her spine.

“Come away, my darling,” she says. “Leave these thoughts of dark things where they lie.”

* * *

"I don't think I shall have any more children," Christine tells her husband sometime after that.

"Why ever so, darling?" Raoul says, as he would discuss the weather over breakfast.

"It's just a feeling I have. I simply don't think it is to be, Raoul."

"We mustn't give up hope."

In truth, she suspects Raoul may be barren, for years have passed and still no more children have come, despite the many times they have shared a marriage bed since Christine had recovered from Gustave's birth.

However, this is not a suspicion one shares with one's husband, especially not when the only evidence is a strange little boy who occupies himself with thoughts of the dark and who can play the piano like no other; a little boy who may very well be the result of a single, shining moment of infidelity. (In fact: she’s almost certain he is.)

"Yes," she says finally. "I think Gustave shall be my only son."

* * *

Raoul slips deeper into a cycle of gambling, losing, drinking, and forgetting, and becomes, if possible, even more distant in the process.

It gets to a point where Raoul seems to regard Gustave only with an aloof sort of pride rather than any kind of affection, and Christine wonders how that’s all one could feel when looking upon one’s own child.

For Christine, her son is nothing less than the stars in the sky, the sweetness in the air, the world itself. How could he be anything else?

As Gustave grows taller, the cycle just continues. And as Christine watches it happen, she makes a solemn promise to love her son enough for herself as well as his father.

Whoever he may be.

* * *

Often, Christine wonders what Erik would think of her son. If he would love the boy as much as she does.

She decides that he would, and the decision inspires a sweet sort of ache in her heart. It aches for Erik, who died never knowing he had a son. It aches for Raoul, who will never have children of his own. It aches for her poor Gustave, who may never know a father’s love.

Oh, if only she had known before Erik died. If only she had known where to find him, she would have told him in a heartbeat.

Sometimes, she lies awake at night and wishes he would just appear like he used to do.

“This is your son,” she would say. “He sings like me and plays like you.”

“I loved you,” she would also say. “I should have told you that when I could.”

* * *

Two more years pass, and Christine has all but forgotten about her long-ago wishes.

They’re in a different country. The money is gone; Raoul has squandered it on his liquor and his games. She must learn this aria and do well by it, for the sum she is being offered to sing it is generous indeed.

As she goes through the composition, she gets an overwhelming sense of _déja vu,_ but that hardly makes sense, as the aria is new. Written specifically for… her.

Her mind is just beginning to turn this over when the mirror opens, and the Phantom emerges in all of his glory, just like she once used to dream he would.


End file.
